


dipping your pen in company ink

by bluebacchus



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Cock Piercing, Dirty Talk, Edward Little's anxiety, Gossip, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, One Night Stands, Paramedic AU, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, holiday party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: Sol Tozer leaves the staff holiday party early. He doesn't leave alone.[A Tozer/Little modern AU in which feelings are felt, nipples are squeezed, and ambulances are driven.]
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44
Collections: Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange





	dipping your pen in company ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verybadhedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verybadhedgehog/gifts).



> "Don't dip your pen in company ink" is a nicer way of saying "Don't shit where you eat."
> 
> Obviously, Sol Tozer does not take this advice.
> 
> It should also be said that the Paramedic Gossip Chain is the deadliest and most dangerous line of communication known to man.
> 
> EDIT: forgot to mention this also fills theterrorbingo prompt: touch-starved
> 
> Note: Sol says the word "tits" like, 45 times but there's no feminization or anything like that. He's just a 'tits' kinda guy.

The three-platoon Christmas party might be the worst party Solomon has ever been to. It’s the worst Christmas party without a doubt, but there was that time in high school that challenges its status as worst party ever. He and his friends had sat in his pal’s basement and tried to smoke weed out of an apple with a barbecue lighter. At the time, hilarious. Looking back, humiliating.

Someone (Hoar, maybe?) bumps into him, sloshing his drink over his aggressively blue Hanukkah jumper.

“Happy Christmas, Sol!” he slurs, and slinks off into the crowd near the buffet table.

“Jewish!” Sol yells after him. His sweater smells like coconut rum now. It reminds him of an old friend who went through a piña colada phase.

And then: respite. The therapy dogs are gathered in a pen in the corner of the hall, and sitting among them is Posh Twat Edward Little.

He doesn’t work with Edward often. They’re on the same shift, but Sol works out of Anfield and Edward’s stationed across the Mersey in Birkenhead. They cross paths in the hospital often enough, what with the damn wait times and the cuts to the NHS. Last week he and Heather spent an entire twelve hour shift waiting in the back hallway of the Royal Liverpool University Hospital with his patient (some old bird with a septic leg). Post Twat Edward Little and Posher Twattier George Hodgson showed up about four hours in (they had a middle-aged bird on oxygen with resolved asthmatic symptoms) and he spent the next eight hours doing crossword puzzles with Edward.

The worst thing about Posh Twat Edward Little is that he’s not actually a twat. He’s actually quite nice to chat with. Down to earth. High-strung, sure, but who in their job isn’t these days? All that’s keeping Sol sane is the fact that he can do shit-all other than to treat people’s emergent medical issues and bring them to the hospital. Edward is the kind of guy who went through medic school for the right reasons. He wants to help everyone. But when you try to help everyone, you end up stretching yourself too thin.

Which is probably why he’s zoned out and sitting in the middle of the dog pen while a golden retriever, a basset hound, and a corgi all jostle for position in his lap (the golden retriever is winning by sheer advantage of size).

“Hey,” Sol says as he steps over the knee-high dog fence. He crouches down and sits back heavily. The golden retriever leaps off Edward’s lap into his, and he’s knocked back with the force of a giant, friendly therapy dog licking little doggy kisses all over his face.

“Hi,” Edward says glumly. It takes a great sort of sadness to be glum when a corgi has settled into your lap for a little snooze.

Sol isn’t the type to fuck around with niceties. “This party sucks.”

Edward almost smiles, an upwards quirk of the corner of his mouth. “I’m stuck listening to George’s stories for twelve hours on a normal day. Listening to him when he’s out of uniform doesn’t really make a difference.”

Posher Twattier George Hodgson looks to be lecturing a group of newbies near the bar, a flute of champagne in his hand.

“Don’t tell anyone I said that, please,” Edward says quietly. “Last thing I need is for the paramedic rumour mill to starts its sinister turning.”

Sol snorts. The paramedic rumour mill is notorious and deadly. Careers have been ruined by seemingly harmless gossip. (The rumour about Heather having a hole in his skull where you could squish his brain got them pulled off the road and their managers spent the better part of an hour squeezing Heather’s head and then sent him for a psych evaluation. Sol had to work with Gibson—his ex’s ex-- for three days when Heather was off being asked to count to ten and assure everyone that his brain is completely intact.)

“What, so you aren’t planning on going home with someone tonight to shock and scandalize George?”

Edward looks up at him from under his eyelashes. He is, Sol notes, quite pretty.

“He’s been trying to set me up with someone for years. I think he’d be relieved.”

 _“Years_?”

Edward huffs. “Yes, years. It just… hasn’t worked out.”

Sol scooches closer. The golden retriever relocates to fill the space between him and Edward, rolling onto his back and rubbing his head against Sol’s thigh.

“You gotta tell me, Little. Who from work have you gone on dates with?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh. Or worse.”

“Oh God, you fucked Hickey.”

“No!”

“Then you’re doing better than me, Little.”

Edward sighs and lays back. The dogs climb all over him like a jungle gym. The basset hound somersaults off his chest and woofs happily.

“I went out with Irving once.”

Sol gapes at him. “And no one talked about it?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. Until now.”

Sol pokes Edward in the bicep. “Did you... y’know?”

He can hear the eye-roll in Edward’s reply. “What are we, sixteen? No, we did not. We went for dinner and then saw Jesus Christ Superstar at the Empire.” A moment passes. “I don’t think he considered it a date.”

“Two bros, chilling at JC Superstar? Pretty lame date, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking,” Edward says, but he’s smiling wryly and Sol is starting to think he’s flirting.

“I’d take you somewhere romantic,” Sol says. He racks his brain for somewhere nice in Liverpool. “I’d snog you in the John and Yoko exhibit at the museum.”

“Always a gentleman.”

“Isn’t that what you posh lads want? A piece of coal like me transformed into a diamond through culture and opera or some such?”

Edward, who had been scratching the ears of the basset hound, stops the movement of his fingers and looks sidelong at Sol. “Is that how you see me?”

Sol silently curses his mouth. It isn’t how he sees him. At first, yeah, he thought he was just another transplanted Londoner who looked down his nose at the industrial cities of the north and was only here for “life experience” or some such nonsense, but Edward’s been around for a while and he’s not the vapid, self-serving tosser Sol wrote him off as when they met. 

“Nah,” Sol says. “I’d take you back to mine for a proper romp before offering to buy you a beer when you’re passed out in post-coital bliss.”

“Then can we snog in front of John and Yoko’s bed?”

He’s wearing that little smile he gets when he’s laughing at Sol’s misfortune, like when his meth-ed up patient unrolled himself from his blanket-burrito and all his bedbugs, also hopped up on meth, started leaping all over the damn ambulance bay. He kept the smile as he helped Sol clean them up, stomping on the jumpy little pests before they escaped to infest the hospital linens.

It was stupidly cute then, and it’s stupidly cute now.

“D’you wanna get out of here?”

Edward’s face splits into a real, dazzling smile. “You have somewhere in mind?”

Sol swallows, suddenly nervous. “Could I interest you in going back to mine? Not for a romp. Maybe for a romp. I’d be down for a romp. If you’d be… inclined?”

Edward stands up, shaking the slumbering corgi off his lap. He pats the dog once in apology before offering the same hand to Sol. He understands its meaning. He takes Edward’s hand.

Sol drives back to his place. He didn’t drink anything at the party (he doesn’t drink much these days) and he’s glad for it: driving is relaxing. If they were in a cab, he’d be like Edward, tapping his foot and wringing his hands in his lap, looking out the window with a blush staining the skin behind his ears.

“Can take you home if you like,” Sol says. He meant it when he said he’d be down for sex, but he’s the kind of guy who gets skittish when his partner isn’t giving as good as he gets. A pretty face biting a pillow does nothing for him, and he’s starting to think that’s how things might go.

“I want to,” Edward says, looking over at Sol. “Have wanted to for a while.”

Sol _hmphs_ and keeps his eyes on the road, but he can’t keep the smile from his face. “Don’t know if I can live up to your expectations.”

“You’re not giving me much hope, Solomon.”

“Sol. If we’re—call me Sol. And that’s my trick. Lower your expectations so much that I blow your mind no matter what.”

“It’s not my mind that wants blowing,” Edward says and Sol nearly drives into the median.

He glances at Edward out the corner of his eye. His hands are still in his lap but now—oh, yeah, now he’s rubbing the heel of his hand against the crotch of his pants and Sol wants to take a closer look at what Posh Twat Edward Little is packing but instead he bites his lip and says, “You a dirty talker, Edward? You gonna tell me everything you want me to do?”

Edward’s breath catches in his throat and, voice low, he says, “Yeah. I don’t like surprises.”

For a guy who doesn’t like surprises, Edward is full of them. They stumble into Sol’s bedroom, tripping over discarded sweat pants and the pile of socks he hasn’t gotten around to putting away yet and Edward pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a broad, hairy chest and two perfect gold rings threaded through his nipples.

“Your _tits,_ Edward, _god,”_ Sol says and drops to his knees, crawling between Edward’s spread thighs when he sits on the bed and he gets his face right in between Edward’s pectorals, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the swell of flesh. “Shoulda known, horse girls always have cracking tits.”

“ _Excuse me?”_ is Edward’s indignant response, but Sol sucks a nipple into his mouth and tongues over it, makes sure it’s wet enough to go cold when he pulls his mouth away and takes the ring between his teeth and pulls. Edward keens, hands sinking into Sol’s hair, and presses his chest out, wanting more.

“You like getting your tits sucked, yeah?”

“Don’t—“ Sol tugs again and Edward gasps. This time, his hips jerk and Sol can feel the firm line of his cock where it presses against his stomach. “Don’t call them that,” Edward says weakly, but his grip on Sol’s hair directs him back to press little licks and nips across his chest. He struggles a little to pull away: he likes the way Edward’s piercings feel against his tongue, how his chest hair rasps against the stubble that Sol didn’t feel like shaving away. But he does, sitting back on his haunches and waiting for Edward to tell him what to do.

Edward is looking at him like he’s confused about something. Sol palms himself through his trousers. He can see Edward’s throat move as he swallows. Then, with a haughty tilt of his head, he says, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Sol grins impishly up at him. “Stop what?”

“What you were doing.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more clear, Edward. I thought you wanted to use that mouth of yours to boss me around.”

Edward sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. His ears and nose are red and he taps his socked foot on the carpet a few times before gritting his teeth and telling Sol, “Just get back up here and play with my tits.”

His victory has his blood pounding, and he practically pounces on Edward, knocking him backwards on the bed and giving Sol access to his entire chest. He tugs on one gold ring while he sucks a hickey into the skin above his opposite nipple; he bites at the hard bud and takes it in his mouth and sucks; he hooks his tongue through a gold ring and curls it until Edward is gasping and writhing on the bedspread.

“Can I fuck you, Sol? Or you can fuck me, I don’t care. I just need you to touch my cock.”

It’s not quite hearing Edward begging him to play with his tits, but the way his mouth wraps around the word ‘cock’ drives Sol to distraction and he pulls back from where he’s grinding slowly against Edward’s leg.

“Yeah, baby,” Sol says. It slips out—a habit he’s tried to break with the last few partners he’s had—but Edward tosses his head back against the quilts, baring his throat, begging to be marked, to be owned.

He can’t resist, not when Edward sounds so sweet when he bites at his neck, sucks at an earlobe, kisses his jaw. Edward’s hand on his cock reminds him of how hard he is, and the sudden pressure on his poor, neglected dick is enough to make him go light-headed and collapse on top of Edward.

“Alright?” Edward mumbles, still breathless.

Sol nods and roll off him, stripping his clothes off in what is surely a new world record for shortest time to get naked.

“I saw a documentary about a guy who passed out when he got hard because his cock was enormous,” Edward says.

Sol snorts. “What kind of documentaries are you watching?”

Edward lifts an eyebrow. “Was just wondering if your cock was that big.” The quiet haughtiness is back. Sol wonders if it’s a defense mechanism that only comes out during sex, or if he talks to patients this way, too. It doesn’t matter, really, not when it’s hot as fuck and he’s this worked up already.

“Best hope not if you want me conscious.”

“Maybe I’d just ride you, get myself off on your massive cock like you’re a toy.”

“Toys don’t mark up your tits like that,” Sol says, nodding at the mosaic of blossoming bruises across Edward’s chest. “When’s the last time you were touched like that?”

“Enough,” Edward says in that quietly commanding way of his. He’s blushing again, and oh, it’s a crying shame that Edward doesn’t have anyone at home to wring the pleasure out of him by groping and squeezing at his perfect tits.

Sol still doesn’t know where his cock is going to end up, but he figures he can get them on even ground. He helps Edward strip his clothes off until they’re both kneeling, fingertips hooked in the waistband of the other’s briefs.

“You know, we haven’t kissed yet,” Edward notes, face close enough to Sol’s that he can feel his breath.

“Then kiss me, baby,” Sol whispers, and Edward’s mouth is on his and he’s pulling down Sol’s pants and he can feel their cocks brush, hot blood and velvet skin and—cold metal?

Sol looks down. “Fuck,” he says.

Edward has a gold ring through the head of his cock that matches the smaller ones in his tits.

“Ah,” Edward says, as if he was the one caught unaware. “I—“

“Fuck me,” Sol growls. “Want you to ram that thing against my prostate till I come.”

“ _Ram_ isn’t usually the word I use to—“ Sol cuts him off with another kiss, this one with more teeth and tongue.

“Don’t care.” He bends over to find the bottle of lube that always falls between the headboard and the mattress when he jacks off. He hears a sharp intake of breath.

“God, your arse,” Edward says.

“Yeah?” Sol tosses the lube over his shoulder. Edward misses the catch and it lands in his lap. “You wanna fuck it?”

Edward bites at his lip and nods, flipping the cap and slicking up his fingers.

“C’mon then, baby. Get me ready.”

Edward’s cock piercing is warm by the time it presses against his slicked-up hole. It’s a testament to how fucking hot Edward is that Sol’s dick stayed stubbornly erect as they dug through discarded trousers for copies of their latest test results and _thank fuck_ they’re both clean, which means Sol gets to feel that thick metal ring rub against his insides when Edward starts to fuck him. He doesn’t exactly _ram_ his cock into Sol, but he fucks him in strong, deep thrusts with his hands on Sol’s hips, groping and kneading at his arse before spreading his cheeks so he can watch his length disappear into the hot clutch of Sol’s body.

Sol’s braced against the headboard and thrusting back against Edward’s hips. It makes the thumping against the wall louder than it has any right to be, but Sol doesn’t give a shit. The neighbours deserve to know how good of a fuck Edward is.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Sol says. “Fuck, you feel good.”

Edward grunts in response. Sol twists his neck to look at him. Edward’s brow is furrowed in deep concentration, his tongue poking out from between his lips.

“Has anyone ever told you that you might have control issues?” Sol laughs.

“Shut up,” Edward mumbles, but his thrusts slow.

“You’re not building a fence, mate. Let loose. Have some fun.”

Edward shakes his head, bewildered.

Sol pulls off his cock and gestures to the headboard. “Sit down. I’ll make you lose your fucking mind.”

Edward sits, still shaking his head. “It was going fine, Sol.”

“Yeah, ‘fine’ doesn’t cut it with me, babe.”

Sol adds some more lube, lines himself up and sinks back down. “There, now. I’ll get you sorted.” He grinds back and forth to get a feel for the new position, then splays his hands over Edward’s chest, catching the piercings in the spaces between his fingers as he starts to bounce himself on Edward’s cock.

“Oh,” Edward gasps. He arches his back so Sol’s fingers catch on a nipple ring.

“Yeah, thought you’d like this,” Sol pants. His thighs burn with exertion so he settles down, Edward’s cock buried deep, and rocks back and forth. He can pay more attention to Edward’s tits this way, and he squeezes and pinches until Edward is as much a mess as he was when Sol discovered how sensitive he was.

“You should be touched like this all the time. So hot, Edward, all this time you had these fucking fantastic tits hidden under your uniform and no one’s been playing with them, huh? Now I know I’ll never stop, baby. And your cock? Made to fuck, what with that big fucking ring through it. Feels nice, baby. Love the way it feels inside me,” Sol babbles, and Edward’s eyes are screwed shut, mouth set in a firm line as he falls apart under Sol’s hands.

“Close,” Edward whispers. Sol gives his nipple rings a final, firm tug and turns around, pulling off Edward’s cock only to impale himself on it again, this time giving Edward a nice view of his athletic arse. He works his hips, putting on a show more for Edward’s benefit than his own, until he feels Edward shift behind him, pulling out and striping Sol’s arse with ribbons of come.

Sol stays on his knees, hand moving furiously over his cock. He can get off like this, he thinks, but then Edward bows his head, pries Sol’s cheeks apart, and buries his face against his hole, licking sloppy circles around it and dipping his tongue into his stretched and slippery entrance.

Sol buries his face in the sheets and wails as he comes.

Edward stays the night and helps him change the sheets in the morning. Sol lets him have the first shower, and Edward lingers in the doorway like he’s not sure what to do.

“Towels are under the sink,” Sol says, and Edward turns on the fan and leaves the door ajar. Sol goes to see how many eggs he has left.

He tosses some frozen hash browns in a frying pan and fries up the last of his eggs. He’s just putting a pot of coffee on when Edward emerges from the shower and his jaw nearly drops.

“Sorry, I didn’t think to ask…” Edward trails off. He’s wearing Sol’s clothes. Of course he’s wearing Sol’s clothes; it’s not like the guy packed an overnight bag. Maybe next time he could. But that would mean Sol wouldn’t get to see his joggers worn low across Edward’s hips, waistline visible when he reaches up to towel dry his hair. Now that he knows to look for them, he can see the faint outline of Edward’s nipple rings through his shirt.

“It’s fine,” Sol says, mouth dry. “Looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” Edward says with a crooked smile. Sol’s never seen it before. He’s never seen the man look so relaxed.

Sol nods. “I made eggs. Potatoes. I don’t have anything else, sorry. I eat the same thing every morning on my days off.”

“So do I,” Edward says. “Eggs and hash browns. And coffee.”

Sol gestures to the counter where coffee begins to drip into the pot, hot and fragrant.

“Smells good.”

“Yeah.”

Edward doesn’t say anything about last night, and Sol isn’t about to ruin the warm, comfortable atmosphere in his kitchen by saying something stupid like “thank you”. He serves; they eat; Edward leaves with a cheery wave.

Any other hookup would have ended there. This hookup should have ended there, but Sol can’t stop thinking about it. He’s still thinking about the sound Edward made when Sol bit down on his nipple when he shows up to work at six in the morning four days later. He and Bill only make it halfway to the nearest Costa before he says what’s on his mind.

“You ever, like, fuck someone and then keep thinking about it?”

Bill looks over from the passenger seat. “I guess? I think about my wife all the time, mate.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“This about the party?”

Sol nods. “I, uh, took Edward Little home.”

Bill nods sagely. “Not such a posh twat after all?”

Sol sighs, and the sound reminds him of Edward.

“Have you talked to him since?”

Sol drums his fingers on the steering wheel and stops at a red light. Bill takes his silence as a ‘no’.

“Well, there’s your problem.”

At four in the afternoon, Sol and Bill pull up to the Royal Liverpool University Hospital with their patient. It’s some kid who tried to jack off with dish soap. Bill goes to give report to the triage nurse. Behind the glass, Sol sees his composure break and he starts to laugh. He can see Bill’s lips move: _Seventeen year old male with a “sore dick”. Poor kid tried to masturbate with dish soap and now his urethra is inflamed._ The nurse shakes her head fondly and inputs the kid’s details. He’s so wrapped up in trying to read Bill’s lips that he doesn’t notice Edward at his side until he speaks.

“We need to talk.”

That’s all he says before he stalks away, leaving Posher Twattier George Hodgson to bore their patient to an early (earlier?) grave with stories about his cousins in America. Bill comes back, wraps the hospital bracelet around their patient’s wrist, and tells him it won’t be long. After a quick word, Sol slips away to the ambulance bay.

He finds Edward in the linens room, stocking up on blankets and pillowcases.

“Hey,” he says, because it’s all he can think to say.

“Am I—“ Edward starts, quiet fury in his voice. “Is this all some sort of game to you?”

Sol stares at him, trying to figure out his meaning. “I… don’t know?”

“You know I’m a real person with feelings, right? Not some… fun thing you can do with your friends.”

“What are you talking about?”

“So, what was it? You take down Posh Twat Edward Little on a dare? A bet? Or just because you could? Because he’s gagging for it, obviously, and now you can just spread it around how much of a—a— _whore_ I am?”

“A _what?_ Christ, Edward, we’re not in sixth form!”

“You gossip like a twelve-year-old girl!”

“I only told Bill!”

“Then explain why I heard from _George_ of all people that we had a ‘ _filthy night of ass-slapping fun_ ’ after the party.”

Edward’s face is red, but not the delicate flush that coloured his ears when Sol teased him. He’s pissed, and Sol can’t blame him.

“Wait here!” he nearly shouts. “I’m going to talk to Bill.”

Edward throws his arms in the air and stalks away.

Whatever. He’ll find him. But first, he reenters the hospital and finds Bill, grabs him by the shoulders, and whisper _what the fuck, man?_ in his ear.

Bill looks at their patient. He’s moaning softly, turned on his side and cupping his inflamed genitals.

“Look man, Pilky asked why you were so moody and I told him your love life was in shambles. That’s all.”

Of course that wasn’t all, but Sol knows how the ambulance gossip chain works well enough not to hold it against his friend.

Bill realizes it too. “Oh God,” he says, “what have I done?”

“Edward thinks I’m a Fuckboy.”

“And, just to be clear, you’re not a Fuckboy, right?”

“No!” Sol says, offended. “I like him. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Then go tell him, dumbass,” their patient says from the stretcher. “Fuckin’ boomers, I s2g.” He says ‘ess two gee’ out loud and Sol wants to smack him.

Instead, he says, “I’m not a fucking boomer!” and goes to find Edward.

Edward is sulking in the driver’s seat of his and George’s ambulance with the door open and soft music playing from the tinny speakers on his phone. He’s playing some colourful game, and when Sol gets close enough he can see that Edward is feeding carrots to a cartoon unicorn.

“I knew you were a horse girl,” he says.

Edward responds with a glare, but he closes his horse game.

“I told Bill that I can’t stop thinking about that night. Or about you.”

“And that’s it?” Edward says dubiously.

“You know how our esteemed coworkers are. I think it sounded a little different when it came out of Hodgson’s mouth.”

“It wasn’t hard to believe,” Edward says bitterly. “I know it was you who wrote TWATMOBILE in the dirt on the back our truck.”

“That was three years ago!”

Edward shrugs. He picks up his phone again.

“Look mate, can’t I admit that I was wrong? I was. I judged you before I really knew you, and that was wrong of me, yeah? I like you, Edward. And—“ Sol takes a deep breath—“I like us, together.”

Edward sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No one’s ever… understood me like you did. It was nice.”

“So,” Sol says, still tentative, “d’you wanna—“

“Yeah,” Edward says with his crooked smile. “Yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the organizers and to my recipient, @verybadhedgehog, for the prompt! This was a fun one to write and I hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
> And yes, the bedbugs on meth incident is based on experience.


End file.
